


Unfavorable Odds

by Cheetoh



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Buffy Wishverse, Drama, Episode: s05e07 Fool For Love, F/M, Gem of Amarra (BtVS), Human Spike (BtVS), Humor, Inspired by The Hunger Games, Sunnydale (BtVS), Vampire Buffy Summers (BtVS)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27272071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheetoh/pseuds/Cheetoh
Summary: One night. That was all Buffy thought she'd be spending with Spike. He'd tell her how he killed her sister slayers, and in exchange, he'd get cash and one "get out of petty evil free" card. Instead, after a surprise ambush and several tranquilizer darts, they both wake up in an alternate dimension to find that they're now players in a life-or-death game set in Bizarro Sunnydale. To survive, they'll have to be the last ones standing--or figure out who brought them here in the first place and why.Sounds easy, right? After all, it's not like she hasn't worked with Spike to take down a baddie before. Unfortunately, their fellow competitors are kind of familiar.Like, really familiar.You could say they know them just as well as they know themselves.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 24
Kudos: 23
Collections: Buffyverse Top 5





	1. Prologue

In retrospect, Kevin the Deadly should have spent a little more time vetting the book he brought to His Queen. But hindsight was 20/20—or 40/20 if one were a Minion demon, which of course he was. 

It had all started in Sunnydale, California, in 2008, Dimension 598765, one of the relatively few worlds where the small city had not become a giant crater in the early aughts. Kevin preferred to do errands in these dimensions, as throughout the vast stretches of the universe, the citizens of Sunnydale remained among those most willing to turn a blind eye to patrons with “skin conditions.”

That day, his business was to find a new book for His Queen, as she had thankfully grown bored with the cloaked residents and petty dramas of Hogwarts. So, after shaking off the dust of interdimensional travel, he had made his way to the shiny new bookstore next to the Espresso Pump.

That was where it had all gone downhill, because the coffee shop’s brightly colored chalk sign was advertising something called a pumpkin spice latte. A fan of all the previous seasonal drinks they had offered—the raspberry mochas, the salted caramel cold brews, the dragon drink that turned out to have nothing to do with dragons, the “unicorn” frappe he was convinced _did_ have something to do with unicorns (it sparkled!)—Kevin was intrigued. If he hurried in the bookstore, he would have time to sit and enjoy this tantalizing new libation before His Queen expected him back.

And so he had grabbed the first book he saw from a large display at the front, a black-jacketed number called _The Hunger Games,_ which he assumed had something to do with baking competitions. After doing a brief scan of the inside flap to make sure there was no mention of vampires (vampires, even baking ones, were the only thing His Glorious Ruler had expressly forbidden, a decree that had made it decidedly difficult for him to find anything for her to read when he jumped here between the years 2005-2008), he had pulled down his large hat and gone to purchase it from the bored cashier who never tired of asking him if he was a club member. (He was, but not until 2073.)

The pumpkin spice latte had proven delicious. In fact, he had snuck back to this dimension several times in the last few weeks, and now he was only one punch away from having a full card. Yet, even so, he would give up every single punch, every delectable drop, if it meant preventing Her from this new bloodthirsty whim. 

Not that he could express that to the fellow minions gathered here in the alley behind the building known as the Bronze. While they had started with a team of about forty, their numbers had dwindled to half that. Even with the tranquilizer darts they’d found in the secret rooms beneath the university, their quarry was proving . . . difficult.

“This is the last one?” Nick the Handsome said hopefully, his scaly hands fluttering up every so often to gingerly touch at his face, which, while not symmetrical, had been the most symmetrical until one of the Slayers had kicked him into a decorative bird fountain on the last trapping mission. 

Kevin pulled the list She had given him--now crumpled and stained with the blood of his fallen comrades--to reconfirm the last target. As he feared, the remaining un-scratched-out item had not changed in the last twenty-four hours.

_Another couple._

He hated the couples. 

Trapping the solo targets for His Queen’s game had proven difficult enough, but the last couple they’d trapped had managed to take out ten— _ten_ —of his fellow minions before finally being subdued, including Jeff the Totally Invincible. And although Kevin would never admit it out loud, he was still sore from the vampire calling him a “scabby-looking wanker” not once, but in _three_ different dimensions. 

All he could do was hope this latest obsession of Hers passed quickly. While he of course trusted Her benevolence and wisdom in all things, this whole mission had him feeling less like “Kevin the Deadly” and more like “Kevin Could Use a Nap.” Or “Kevin the Desirous of Early Retirement.” 

“It is the last one, but it is another two-target capture,” he said. Was he imagining it, or were they all gazing at him with resentment? He knew many of them blamed him for introducing Her Majesty to the new books, but then again, they were the same ones who kept complaining about being sorted into the wrong “houses” and chasing him around with demands to be “reassessed.”

There were a few grumbles. Probably from the Slytherins. 

He made a show of frowning. “I know Our Wise and Shiny One would be dismayed to hear that your loyalty only extends so far,” he said. “Has She not been our best and greatest Mistress? Has She not raised us from the muck of our former existence? Before Her, we were not even allowed to choose our own names.”

In truth, they were still not _really_ allowed to choose their names, having been given a strict list from which to choose. Though many had attempted to slip in an obsequious question as to the origins of the allowed names—were they perhaps fond pets from years of yore?—Her Gloriousness had always been cagey, as she always was when it came to questions about her past. However, in her great understanding, she did allow them to choose their own attached sobriquet when it became clear that the presence of ten A.J.s was confusing.

“It’s not that we do not revere Her of the Naturally Lustrous Hair,” A.J. the Bold said, fingers twisting his cloak as he looked around the circle for support. “It is only that . . . well, we would hate for Her Scrumptiousness to get in trouble,” he said in a rush. “Or . . . more trouble. We like it here, don’t we?” 

There was a rush of lanky-haired nods. 

“Ha!” Kevin scoffed, although secretly he was plagued by similar worries. True, he’d been going on excursions outside their prison for years to ease Her infinite boredom, but this was the first time She’d asked him to bring back actual living beings, and not only that, to bring back _important_ beings—a slayer, an infamous vampire—whose disappearances and potential gruesome deaths might in fact change the course of their respective dimensions. It seemed sure to catch the attention of their jailers. Jailers who would definitely _not_ let them choose their own names or zip out for a nice pumpkin-flavored drink.

Not that he was going to be the one to tell her that. His Majesty’s benevolence was only eclipsed by the shrillness of her shrieking when dissatisfied.

“I will tell Our Shiny Queen that you desire a meeting to air some reservations,” he said smoothly. 

With a high-pitched laugh, A.J. took a step back. “No! No! Please, forget I said anything. Not sure what got into me. Caffeine probably. Too much caffeine. I’ve got a cold, too, yes, a cold, and it’s given me this weird sinus thing?” he rambled before wisely deciding to mime zipping his lips.

“If there are no more _interruptions_. . .” Kevin said, trying to snap the list, but it only made a dull _thwapping_ sound, worn as it was by this point. “Our next stop is Sunnydale, California, Dimension 232, Year 2000, at 8:32 p.m. on November the Fourteenth. In this world, she is a slayer, he is a vampire. Try to take her down first, as we’ve learned her capture makes him erratic and impulsive.” He surveyed the remains of his group. “Did we all remember to bring our weapons this time?” 

There was a shuffle in the circle as the tranquilizer guns were brandished and then rehidden in the folds of their dull brown cloaks. Each gun held one dart. Or at least they should. 

“Did we all remember to _load_ our weapons this time?” 

There was a curse and a scuffle from the back that said, no, we all did not. 

Once he was certain they were prepared—with loaded guns _and_ extra ammo—Kevin tucked the list back in his cloak and bowed his head, one hand wrapping around the dimly glowing green stone at his neck.

As he whispered the coordinates, a small cut appeared in the air at the end of the alley. She had instructed him that they would find the pair somewhere near here in the alternate Sunnydale. While it wasn’t necessary to start at a parallel point in their world, it did make the effects of jumping more mild. No one wanted another vomiting incident—except maybe for Justin the Thwarter of Societal Expectations. 

With a nod that the others should follow, Kevin walked to the tear in space and time and stepped through.

The Sunnydale into which he exited looked much like the one he’d just left, although the sound of laughter coming from the main street proved this was a world sadly populated by more than incarcerated hell goddesses and their minions. It always took Kevin a little while to get his bearings after a jump, and for a second he found himself staring dazedly at a row of dumpsters, which unlike those in their world, were full and fragrant and smelled of . . . pumpkins? If he was quick, perhaps he could make it several blocks to the Espresso Pump and get that last—

 _No, you worm!_ he chastised himself. _That is what got you in this trouble in the first place._ And in any case, the rest of his party were already starting to silently gather behind him. 

“Do you see them?” said Drew the Chill, who had the itchiest trigger finger among them. Kevin was about to hiss at him to hide his gun when a familiar voice floated from deeper in the dirty blue-lit alley.

“. . . And the thing about the dance is, you never get to stop.”

It was the vampire—Spike, as he was most often called—and he was spinning a pool cue as this Buffy looked on, mouth tight with restrained anger. She clearly did not like what he was saying. 

“Oooh, this one’s wearing the coat again!” A. J. said brightly, but Kevin told him to shush, not wanting to ruin the element of surprise. The two were so focused on one another that they didn’t even see the party silently amassing forty feet away. Perhaps casualties could be kept to a minimum. Not that he’d feel that bad about Drew. 

“Every day you wake up, it’s the same bloody question that haunts you,” Spike continued. “Is today the day I’m going to die?”

A startled Kevin watched as Spike brought the pool cue toward the Slayer’s face. In return, the Slayer backhanded him, hard enough that the vampire fell to his knees.

Kevin couldn’t believe it. Mission after mission, these two had fought capture like a well-oiled machine. But now, they were fighting . . . _each other?_ Dare he hope that this one would actually be easy? 

Panting, Spike regained his feet. “Death is on your heels, baby. And part of you wants it. Not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you’re just a little bit in love with it.”

She punched him straight in the face then, making him fall once again.

“When should we attack?” Drew whispered.

Now, probably, but Kevin was kind of enjoying watching the vampire get punched in the face. Nevertheless . . . “Let us get a bit closer. Slowly.”

“Death is your art,” Spike was saying, still on his knees. “You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know, what’s it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that’s the secret, not the punch you didn’t throw, or the kicks you didn’t land. She merely wanted it. Every slayer has a death wish. Even you.”

Spike rose to his feet, holding the Slayer’s gaze. 

“The only reason you’ve lasted as long as you have, is you’ve got ties to the world. The mum, brat kid sister, Scoobies, they all tie you here. But you’re just putting off the inevitable. Sooner or later, you’re going to want it. And the second . . . ” He lunged forward to clap in her face. “The _second_ you do. You know I’ll be there. Have myself a real good day.”

Tension hung in the air, enough that if Kevin had had body hair, it would be standing on end.

After staring intently into her eyes, Spike backed up. “Here endeth the lesson. I just wonder if you’ll like it as much as she did.”

Buffy finally spoke. “Get out of my sight. Now,” she said with deadly calm.

They were within thirty feet, plenty of range for their darts to hit with accuracy. The pair still hadn’t looked in their direction once.

“On my mark,” Kevin said softly. “Remember, shoot her first.”

“Oh. Did I scare ya?” Spike was saying. “You’re the Slayer. Do something about it. Hit me. One good swing. You know you want to.”

Kevin wanted to. But the Slayer was showing remarkable restraint. 

“I mean it,” Buffy bit out as Spike just moved in closer.

“One . . .” Kevin said.

“So do I. Give it to me good, Buffy. Do it.”

“Two . . .” Kevin said.

“He’s going to _kiss_ her?!” Drew blurted, his non-chill cry cracking through the alley.

Their targets sprung apart, blond heads whipping toward them in unison, before Buffy’s whipped back. 

“Wait,” she seethed at Spike. “Was this some kind of _trap?_ Lure me out here for some demon ambush?” 

“Don’t know these plonkers from Adam. And besides, you invited me,” Spike said. “How would it be a bloody trap?”

“I swear to God, Spike, if you—“

“Three!” Kevin said wildly, before this spun even further out control.

Pushing their cloaks aside, the Minions released a volley of tranquilizer darts, three of which struck the Slayer. One in the chest, one in the neck, and another in the upper thigh. They were lucky—they’d found three was the perfect number with Slayer iterations. 

“Hey!” Buffy said. “You’re going to regre . . .” she started, but it faded as her eyes started to roll and flutter. “You’re going to . . .”

She slumped down.

Spike stared at her crumpled form as if he were having trouble computing what exactly had just happened, which gave them time to reload. But when Kevin looked up, he was barreling toward them, stupid coat flapping.

“Oi! You scabby-looking wankers shouldn’t’ve—“

 _Ping!_ Kevin shot him, right in the neck. 

“What the—” he got out, before his eyes began to roll up too. A part of Kevin wanted to unload three more into his face, one for each “wanker,” but he knew that would be overkill. Even at his most vampiric, as long as they hit his neck, Spike never took as many darts to go down. Perhaps Kevin would write that fact on a note and pin it to his shirt for when he woke up.

For a few moments no one spoke, just stared at the two fallen foes. 

“Really think he was going to try to kiss her,” Drew said after a beat, walking over to nudge the vampire with a toe. “Even though I don’t think this one of her even likes him.”

Kevin didn’t think so either. Which was interesting, given the other couples they’d trapped, who at least knew how to work together. And the solo ones . . . well, it was clear His Queen had chosen them for the special advantages they offered. 

“Bet they go early,” Nick said then let out a whistle as he circled the Slayer. “Look, she’s injured.” He pointed to where her tan coat had fallen open. The thin shirt beneath had inched up to reveal a large bandage. 

The smell of fresh human blood hit his nose, and Kevin started to panic. It didn’t _look_ fatal, but he didn’t want to be on the other end of Her unholy shriek if one of Her contestants expired before the game had even begun.

“We have to get them to their starting places,” he said.

“Where are they going?”

Tucking his gun away, Kevin pulled his list back out to check the column beside their names. “The motel, edge of town.”

“Why do you think She hates these two so much?” A.J. mused, scooping down to loop his hands underneath the vampire’s arms as Drew took his feet. 

It was another thing Kevin had wondered, had even made a list of possibilities once while taking sips of foamy pumpkin coffee—he wanted to understand his Queen, even if she was infinitely unknowable—but all he said was “We must not question Her Supreme Deviousness’s will.”

As his fellow minions scurried to follow his orders, Kevin took one last look at the couple. It wasn’t that he felt sorry for them, exactly, especially since at some point, some version of them had done something to fall on Her bad side (bad as in figuratively of course—all sides of His Queen were physically lovely). But he had seen the boards outlining Her plans, the mayhem she planned to enact. Somehow, it seemed unfair to punish these two for a crime their doppelgangers had committed somewhere out in the vast universe. 

“Do you think she really has a death wish?” Nick said, hunched over now that he was carrying the unconscious slayer on his back. 

The question shook Kevin out of what he now realized were supremely treasonous thoughts. He would have to punish himself when they got back—he would take a marker and cross off several coffee punches from his card. Yes, that was the only way to make it right with His Queen, apart from actual punches to his face. 

“I think it is good for her if she does,” he said, then laughed his most evil laugh, to show just how on board he was with Her Plan. 

Because no, he thought as he headed back to the portal, a swell of echoing laughter at his back.

This pair did not have much of a chance at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Spike woke with the scent of Slayer in his nose. 

Ever since that first dream, the one that had told him the truth of things, even if he hated it (he did), this sometimes happened. A parting gift from his subconscious after a night filled with images of fighting her, and fucking her, and hunting her, and biting her, and once, sitting in his mother’s front parlor with her while she rolled his eyes at his every bumbling attempt to explain the geopolitical reasons for the Afghan War. 

But it had never been this strong. 

Nor had his eyes felt this heavy. 

With a growl, and a lot of concentration, he pried one open. But instead of moldering stone, he was staring at a mushrooming water stain on a cheap stucco ceiling. 

So. Not his crypt, then. 

The Buffy smell was overwhelming now. When he managed to pry the other eye open, he saw why. 

Hair. Golden, shampoo-commercial hair. Spilling over his chest like silk and bathing him in the scent of strawberries and sunshine that followed the Slayer like a bloody chemtrail. 

A bed. He and Buffy were in a bed, together. The weight across his chest was her tawny arm, nails a pale pink, and the weight across his legs and hips was her warm, taut, powerful thigh, slung up at an angle so her knee brushed his stomach. 

A moan tickled his ear, and he rolled his head to the side to find his lips only a hair’s breadth away from Buffy’s. She shifted, sliding her leg down so her inner thigh pressed against his cock. 

The senses that had been numbed exploded as Spike frantically tried to piece together the events of the night before. Drinks. A dark corner of the Bronze. Trading barbs among the hazy smoke and fug of body spray. Her lips glistening in the low light as she scowled at him for requesting wings and beer. Beer. Had the chit drank so much that he’d, by some unholy miracle, managed to convince her to cast off Captain Cardboard and come home with him? 

But no—she’d ordered nothing but water, the maddening bitch.

“Mmm,” Buffy groaned again, her head making distressed little circles against his shoulder. The bubble-gum gloss from the night before had long since worn away, but a strand of hair still stuck to her lush bottom lip. 

Visions assaulted him then. He wanted to kiss her and pull it away with his teeth. He wanted to slide his hand into the front of her tight pants and see her wake moaning for a different reason, warm and wet on his fingers. He wanted to roll on top of her and press his hips against the heat of her and he wanted to . . . do a lot of things that would get him staked when the Slayer woke up and the real reason they were here became clear. 

Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from the glorious cloud of slayer, lifting her knee then sliding out to haul his screaming muscles into a sitting position. As he did, a folded piece of lined paper fell into his lap. 

_You have inferior resistance to tranquilizer darts! —Kevin_

Who the bloody fuck was Kevin? And why the fuck had he tranqued them and dumped them on a bed in what seemed to be one of the grimier rooms of the motor lodge on the edge of town, because yeah, it was all coming back now. He’d had Buffy in the alley, and he’d finally managed to prick his way through that haughty wall of disdain she wore around her like the choicest of mink coats, and even if all she was throwing at him was hatred and disgust, that hatred and disgust was creating _heat_ and maybe, just maybe, _heat_ could be turned into—

And then some plonker had yelled from the other end of the alley, and Spike had turned to find a host of scabby little monastery rejects watching them like they were the halftime show. Before he could react, they’d shot the Slayer, which made his rage swim up hot and thick, ’cause if anyone was going to shoot the bint it was going to be him. But before he could explain that, all calm-like, they’d shot him. 

None of that, however, explained why they’d been brought here. Back before the chip, he’d killed people in at least three rooms of this (dis)establishment, and he was pretty sure he’d left them all looking better than this one ... although, while the room definitely _looked_ the worse for wear, there were none of the smells one usually associated with these roadside deathtraps. No whiff of mildew from the dull brown comforter. No stale cigarette smoke from the threadbare carpet. No sewage from a recently backed-up toilet, or olfactory layers of sleazy affairs all piled up like sexual sediment. 

What there was, was blood. 

He sniffed. Recent blood. 

Following his nose, he looked down at the slayer stretched out beside him. She’d rolled over to occupy his vacated pillow, her warm hips flush against the side of his leg in a way that almost made him miss the small patch of red bleeding through her shirt. 

After checking to make sure she was still well and truly asleep, he took the edge of the flimsy fabric between two fingers and peeked beneath to see a thick white bandage--or, more accurately, a half-white bandage. Whatever wound she was nursing had sprung a leak. 

So he had been right about the close call. 

Buffy snorted a puff of air then, one that made him drop her shirt like it was on fire. Right. 

He needed to get his head on straight and figure out what was going on or else, 'cause as soon as she sprang back to life, she was sure to think the worst of him, even though it’d been at least . . . well, at least a good couple of weeks since he’d given her any reason to. And hadn’t he just helped her and her ridiculous Scoobies out when that Tara bird’s Neanderthal family had come to collect? You’d think that would’ve gotten him a little credit. 

“Nurmf,” the Slayer said into his pillow. 

“Yeah, you would say that,” he muttered, then forced himself to take stock of what he knew. 

One, a group of cloaked demons had shot both him and the Slayer with tranquilizer darts. 

Two, one was a snarky wanker named Kevin. 

And three, Kevin had brought them to a motel room by the highway, only said motel room smelled like it hadn’t been used in decades. 

Usually, this kind of set-up was a "compromising situations" kind of deal, but a quick check of the room’s corners found no cameras. Hidden ones, then. He went to the scratched bureau with its useless “No smoking” sign and turned over the alarm clock that was blinking 1:34 a.m., and then the tacky lamp that was giving the whole room an anemic yellow glow. Both seemed normal. 

Next he went to the telly, which was a fancy model for this joint, flat and sleek rather than one of the boxy wheeled numbers that was inevitably missing some crucial knob. Picking up the slim remote, he clicked the power button, then immediately lowered the volume. 

The channel was black--no static, just black. And when he clicked to the next one, that was black too. He could tell the set was on because there was a faint buzz of electricity, but the stations were all just . . . blank. No public access channels, no rainbow bars saying they had stopped broadcasting for the day, no infomercials where a Buffy-looking blonde chirpily espoused the virtues of floor wax to drunk sods who thank fuck didn’t have access to a working credit card at the mo because what was he--er, they--going to do with floor wax? Nothing. And nothing here either. 

Feeling unsettled, Spike crept over to the cheap, shiny curtains and peeked outside, taking care to stand to the side in case their blackout capabilities were working too well. Thankfully, while the streetlights by the road were bright, it was still nighttime, which meant escape was on the table. It must be late, too, as he didn’t see any headlights on the highway beyond, just the railing that noted they were on the second floor and a stretch of parking lot, cartops all shining like beetles. It didn’t seem like any of their scabby kidnappers were lurking about either. 

Spike went to the door and opened it, peering from left to right before stepping out into the cool night air. 

They were at the Sunnydale Motor Lodge, all right. There was the motel’s red and blue neon sign, casting an eerie glow over the open-air hallway. And there were the mountains you would expect in the distance, dark silhouettes that provided the backdrop for the highway that snaked out of dear old Sunnyhell--a highway he should have taken years ago, mind you. 

But that was where the similarities ended. 

He’d left rooms like this many times in the dead of night, blood on his mouth, borrowed life zipping through his senses, and even though no one ever dared question what he was doing, there were always signs of humanity lurking about. Smells of greasy takeout Chinese hanging in the air, a squeak of springs as people tossed and turned and shagged on shoddy mattresses, an echoing row about whose turn it was to call the front desk about the pillows that hadn’t arrived yet (and never would, because most motel desk clerks in this neck of the woods had unfortunately wised up to the whole bait and suck routine).

And yet not only were there no souls lurking about, there were no sounds of souls either. No voices, no cars on the road, and no smells except for the distant tang of salt on the air from the ocean he’d never had reason to visit. 

Genuinely unnerved now, Spike began to creep down the row of red doors, looking for something that would prove this feeling wrong. Most were locked, and he passed those by, even though it would be easy enough to bust through; as much as he wanted correcting, he didn’t fancy it coming at the hands of a trucker named Frank angry at having his beauty sleep disturbed. 

Finally, toward the end, he found one unlocked. Pushing it open, he peered inside. 

The bed was rumpled, but empty. At its foot, someone had set open a suitcase, revealing a tacky polyester suit belted in the lid and a set of dress shoes that practically yelled “middle-management sod.” A half-smoked cigarette rested in an ashtray on the table and chairs that made for a sad business area in the corner. A flayed sports section covered the rest of it. 

Still, the room smelled of nothing human. 

Throwing caution out the window, Spike charged inside and picked up the paper, which turned out to be a copy of _The Sunnydale Herald_ , a rag that would have honestly been better served by a “Neck Trauma” section than a sports one in the first place. (“A Rash of the Same Fucking Crime Strikes Again! Police Confounded.”) Instead of going down that tunnel of thought, in which he probably spent more lazy daylight hours than he should, Spike’s eyes went to the date. 

April 1st, 1999. 

Not that Spike was a great keeper of time, given the yawning expanse of immortality and all that, but he was pretty sure that was at least two bleeding years ago. And yet his nose was telling him no one had been in this room, wearing those clothes, smoking this cigarette, for centuries. 

What the bloody _fuck_ was going on? 

It was time to wake up the Slayer. 

________

Buffy was in a cemetery--which on its own, wasn’t exactly news to write home about, but the fact that this cemetery’s gravestones seemed to be made of cheese probably was. Also notable was the fact she was running _from_ the vampire on her heels rather than charging _at_ him with pointy quips and an even pointier stake. 

“Slayer,” a voice hissed behind her. 

Darting a glance behind her, she saw that it was the KISS-reject vampire that had staked her a few nights ago, his black mullet rippling as he cut through the Gouda gravestones. It was a ridiculous image, and yet she was scared--so scared--fear flooding her senses in a rush she hadn’t felt since stepping into the Master’s cave so many years ago. 

“Gonna give this back to you, girlie,” the vampire growled, heavy leather jacket with its metal zippers and studs clanking, clanking as he came ever closer. He was holding her stake, and--

\--but no, she realized, stopping abruptly. Her stake was already in her stomach. She was bleeding, drops of red spattering the ground around her bare feet. Her toenails were painted a truly icksome green. Booger green.

_I’m going to die and I really need a pedicure_ , she thought wildly. 

“Told you death was on your heels, baby,” said a new voice, and when she looked up, the cemetery was just a normal cemetery, the gravestones back to their solemn, stone-faced selves, and the rockstar-reject vampire nowhere in sight. But there was Spike, smiling at her with his stupid lips and his dumb neon hair and smug, punchable face. 

“Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey,” he said, drawing a cigarette to his lips and then expelling the smoke in a puff that turned into a heart, like the smoke in one of those old Pepe Le Pew cartoons where the skunk was always chasing the poor cat. 

“I told you to get out of my face, Spike,” she said. 

“I mean it, Slayer, now’s the time to _wake up,”_ he said, fixing her with a look. His voice had gone all echo-y.

“And _I_ mean it when I say get out of my face or I’ll end you,” she insisted. “Yousmell like old pizza.” As that last bit hung in the air, she frowned. She had really thought that last insult was going to be a winner, the thing that finally cut him down to size, but it had come out all weird. 

“Well, you’re drooling all over the damn pillow,” he snapped, voice gone hard, and yet the Spike in front of her wasn’t moving his lips. “And it’s bloody disgusting.” 

“Oh yeah? Well I say--” 

But she didn’t finish because the world was shaking, the world was shaking, and then--

Her eyes snapped open. 

It had been a dream. She’d been dreaming. 

But Spike’s smug and punchable face hadn’t disappeared. Instead it was even closer to hers, his ice-blue eyes only a foot away as he leaned over her with a frown, his dark brows drawn into a stark vee. His hands were on her bare shoulders, fingertips cool and rough, and he was shaking her. 

“’Bout time,” he said. “I had half a mind to--” 

She punched him, her left fist flying up to smack him in the cheekbone and send him rolling off the bed, trailing curses in his wake. 

_Wait--the bed?!_ Why were she and Spike and their collective parts on a bed, together? 

Buffy sat up, gasping, only to have the world tilt sideways as she did. Oh God, her head. She hadn’t felt this way since the morning after the Cave Buffy experience. Although at least then she had woken up in her dorm room. A panicked look around told her that she was in some ratty motel room like the one Faith had lived in. Actually--maybe it _was_ the ratty motel room Faith had lived in. 

_Yes, but why are you in it with_ Spike _?_

A faint groaning was coming from the floor beside her. Then a pale hand grasped the edge of the dirt-brown comforter, followed by Spike’s head popping up like an evil gopher. An _angry_ evil _vampire_ gopher. 

Instinctively, she pulled her fist back, to which he immediately threw up his hands in a “don’t punch” gesture. 

“Why are we in a motel room, Spike?” she said. 

“That’s the bloody question of the hour, innit?” he said, angrily swiping at the blood that gathered beneath his nose. After a brief hesitation, he wiped it on his jeans. “Clearly, I didn’t wake you up because of your sweet disposition.” 

Buffy opened her mouth to reply only to be swamped by a wave of nausea. The room had started to tilt again, the tacky lamp on the flimsy desk across the foot of the bed dancing in a way that was actually going to make her heave. 

“Oh God,” she said, grabbing her stomach and hanging her head while doing her best not to hurl. If her pounding temples weren’t enough, there was a burning at her side that suggested she’d split at least one stitch. She hated to show weakness in general, but to show it in front of _him_ seemed somehow worse. 

When she was able to meet his gaze again, however, she could swear she saw a flicker of concern before he schooled his features into his usual mask of disdain. He opened his mouth, but she held up a finger to stop him. 

“You have three seconds to tell me why those demons shot us.” Because it was all coming back now. The night spent hearing all about how Spike got off on killing slayers. Following him to the alley where he ran his mouth some more. Punching him. Punching him again. _Wanting_ to punch him again, and then suddenly being shot by a gaggle of demons huddling at the mouth of the alley. She couldn’t believe she’d been so caught up in Spike--and the chill of what Spike was saying--that she hadn’t even noticed an approaching enemy. 

Spike used his first two seconds to gape at her from the floor. “As I said,” he finally said with menacing quiet, “I’ve never seen those demons before in my life. _And,”_ he said, holding up his own finger-- _not_ the pointer one--“if I really had some grand ol’ plan to get some scabby wankers to off you, it sure as fuck wouldn’t involve me also being on the end of a tranquilizer dart.” 

“How do I know you got shot too?” she said. "Last thing I remember was passing out in that alley."

After rolling his eyes, he clambered to his feet and grabbed a folded piece of paper off the dresser. He flicked it into her lap. “Suppose I wrote this to myself.” 

Buffy studied the message. “You could have totally written this to yourself,” she said, flicking the note back at him. “And Kevin’s a lame name for a demon.”

“ _No,”_ he said, snatching it from the air. “Not my handwriting.” He flicked it back. 

This time, after she caught it, she made a show of tearing it up into tiny pieces. “I don’t know your handwriting,” she said. “And handwriting is like super easy to fake. Just ask my mom how many bad midterm grades she _thinks_ I had in high school.” The note was confetti now. Cupping her palm, she blew it back in his scowling face. 

Spike stood in the snow, blinking, then roared in frustration. “What’s it going to take for you to realize I’m on your bloody side here?” 

“Uh, I don’t know, mind-whammy me so that I forget the last four years? No, wait, mind-whammy me so that I forget the last few _weeks._ You tried to kill me in that university lab when you thought the chip was out!” 

“Well, yeah, but--” 

“And a few months before _that_ , you tried to help Adam kill me and all my friends.” 

“Well, yeah, but--”

“So forgive me if I’m not buying this whole innocent act,” she said. “Because what’s changed between then and now?” 

Spike’s face went blank--oddly blank, especially for him. It was rare to see Spike truly devoid of expression, even if that expression was a “I want to tap dance around on your entrails singing _Ding-dong, the bitch is dead._ ” But it was really and truly blank, like he thought the slightest twitch might set off some sort of bomb.

“I’m waiting,” she said impatiently. 

Without another word, he stalked over to the motel’s door and yanked it open without even looking through the peephole. That was like Motel 101. Especially _Evil_ Motel 101. 

“Hey!” she said. “There could be someone--”

“Go on outside then,” he insisted, waving his hands into the neon-soaked night. “Take a real good look around, and then you come back and tell me I have anything to do with this. Make sure to pay _extra_ special attention to the room at the end of the row.” 

Buffy found herself hesitating. “You probably have someone out there waiting for me.” 

With an exasperated sigh, Spike stalked over to where her coat had been laid neatly across the back of one of the chairs. After rifling through the pockets, he threw a stake on the end of the bed. “There.” 

When she didn’t immediately take the stake and get up, he went back to the door and made a point of holding it open even more, until the hinges protested with a creak. When she still didn’t move, he lowered his chin and smirked. “Don’t tell me you think I’ve finally found some beastie that can take you,” he said silkily before his eyes flicked to her injured side. “Or _maybe--”_

“I told you, don’t get excited--it’s _fine_ ,” Buffy said, swiping up the stake and climbing off the bed, steeling herself not to wince when the movement made her side burn more. The room went a bit fuzzy for a second, but she was proud to say she didn’t wobble. 

“Then off you go,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “You know where to find me when you’re done.” 

She made sure to keep her chin high as she marched to join him at the door, then put on a show of poking her head out and looking in both directions. When she pulled her head back in, she almost caught him on the nose because he’d leaned in to . . . sniff her hair? She shook her head. The drugs were making everything all woozy. 

“I’ll be back,” she said, making sure the words were embedded with as much threat as possible. It was only when she’d closed the door behind her that she realized how Terminator-ish they’d sounded. She could swear she heard him chuckle through the door. 

The nighttime air was cool enough that she wished she’d grabbed her coat on the way out, but she’d be damned if she’d go back in before she saw whatever it was that stupid Spike clearly wanted her to see. So far, it looked exactly like the outside of the Sunnydale Motor Inn, which ambitiously advertised itself as a “Downtown” motel even though anything that could pass as such was at least five miles east. 

She clutched her stake harder. There was its stupid sign with the flashing arrow. There was the stupid pool that she’d never seen filled with water. There was the stupid ice machine going _clink, clunk, clink_ at the end of the hall, and there were the twin vending machines glowing at her in their attempt to lure her downstairs for empty calories. _Not sure what the big freaking deal is_ , she thought, especially since there was (thankfully) no sign of the demons who had ambushed them in the first place. In fact, there was no sign of anyone or anything. Not on the highway, not milling about among the cars in the parking lot, and not in the motel’s office downstairs . . . which, come to think of it, was completely dark. Odd, given the 24/7 on the sign. 

She decided to head downstairs and investigate, bypassing the open room at the end of the row specifically because Spike had instructed her to look at it. She’d talk to the clerk, ask him whether he’d seen any goblin-y looking things lurking around. 

The bell over the door jingled as she stepped into the dark office, where the only claim to fame was a wilting ficus and a stand with a pockmarked selection of brochures boasting of Sunnydale’s limited tourist attractions (“See the world-famous diamond at the Sunnydale Museum!”). She waited a few beats to see if anyone would come running, and when they didn’t, called out a greeting. 

Nothing. 

She approached the counter, which held one of those little ding-ding bells like one saw in the movies. She hit it, then hit it again, then hit it one more time because those dingy bells were fun. She was leaning over the desk to see if she could spot anyone moving through the half-open door when she spotted the open guest book. 

The last person who checked in did so two years ago. 

She looked through the window behind her, where the blinking sign illuminated a parking lot full of beat-up sedans, a few trucks, and one or two midlife-crisis mobiles. 

“Hello?” Buffy called, a bit desperate now. When no one answered, she made an executive decision and slid around the desk to sit in front of the ancient computer--if the clerk did arrive, she’d play it off as some sort of blonde moment about thinking it was self-check-in. They’d probably just switched to electronic records, she told herself as she booted it up, revealing an excel sheet on the desktop labeled “Guest Information.” She heaved a sigh of relief. Obviously, they just hadn’t--

The last entry matched the paper one. And the credit card listed had an expiration date of last year. 

_Okay, there’s a reasonable explanation for this,_ she thought as she rose, leaving the chair spinning as she headed out the door and back up the stairs. This time she went in the room on the end with the open door, where she saw what Spike had wanted her to see: an abandoned half-smoked cigarette, a newspaper on the table. April 1st, 1999. The same date of the last guest’s check-in. 

Dread building in her chest, she went to the next room, forcing the door open when it proved locked. It also offered signs of recent occupation--rumpled beds, a set of swim trunks drying on the shower rod, a half-drunk bottle of coke that still had bubbles--but the people were missing. The next four rooms were the same. One had been occupied by a family, if the well-loved stuffed animals gathered in the tangled sheets of one queen-sized bed was any indication, while another had clearly been the site of a super-sexathon, as the nightstand held the largest box of condoms Buffy had ever seen and a nimbus of empty wrappers around the bed itself. 

But in all of them, no people. Even though it was the middle of the night, it was as if the guests had just . . . disappeared. 

Quietly, Buffy went back to where Spike was waiting. If there was a silver lining here, it was that the adrenaline rushing through her body right now seemed to have chased away the fogginess of the tranquilizers. Steeling herself for the smug look she was sure he had aimed at the door, she pushed it open. 

But Spike wasn’t looking at her. He’d taken over the bed, leaning back against the oddly ornate headboard like he hadn’t a care in the world, big ugly boots up on the comforter, skin starkly pale in contrast to the dark wood. It was then she realized that he wasn’t wearing his coat, and that Spike had . . . biceps. Like . . . nice ones. Objectively, she had understood that Spike had arms, and had even seen them on one or two occasions, and had even felt them around her during Willow’s spell-- _not_ that she ever thought about that--but it was easier to just think of him as an annoying floating head above a curtain of black, like one of those kids’ puppet shows, only this one had a lot of British curses and was only appropriate for sailors.

She wished he would put his coat back on, but she didn’t see it. 

He’d taken the Bible from the nightstand and was drawing something in it--in _pen_ \--while whistling. The pen’s cap was in his mouth like a toothpick. 

“So,” he said, removing the pen cap but not taking his eyes off the pages in his lap, “just dying to hear how I shot us back in time. Oh, and mustn’t forget how I evaporated all the good folk of Sunnydale, either, by clicking my heels three times and going _toora loora lay_.” 

“There has to be a reasonable explanation,” she said, taking a seat on the farthest corner of the bed. When he looked up as if to say, _You’ve got to be kidding me,_ she added, “I mean, in general. I . . . don’t think . . . I don’t think you could set something like this up.” 

The admission burned like acid. Now that there wasn’t a simple explanation along the lines of _Because Spike is the actual worst_ , now that there wasn’t something that she could threaten and strong-arm Spike into fixing, a yawning pit of possibilities seemed to open up at her feet. 

Spike tossed the Bible he was defacing to his feet. “I don’t _think_ we’re in Sunnydale anymore.” When she started to protest, he continued, “I know it looks like it, but this place? Hasn’t been inhabited by anything human in centuries.” He tapped his nose. “I’d bet my unlife on it.” 

“But then where--” 

“Think it’s another dimension. Maybe one that was cleared out by something a long time ago, dunno. But those scabby-looking fucks tranqued us and brought us here for a reason. The question is why.” 

Buffy put her head in her hands. “This can’t be happening,” she moaned. “Not right now.” Not with what she’d just discovered about Dawn. She knew what the dying monk had told her, she knew that Dawn thought she was just a girl, not some ball of mystical energy sent for Buffy to protect; she knew that Dawn wasn’t a danger to her mother, but the super skank in the red dress that she’d fought was. And even if not, there was whatever else was going on with her mother, the fainting spells and the headaches and the plate-dropping . . . 

Her stomach dropped at the thought of how pale her mother had looked lately. Why couldn’t things just stop piling up for one second? Why couldn’t the universe just give her a second to, you know, actually read the syllabi of her classes for once? To take up a very small, very cheap hobby, like knitting. Not sweaters, or scarves, because those were too big, but maybe like tiny hats for kittens? 

Why couldn’t the universe give her time to just . . . breathe. 

_Part of you is desperate to know, what’s it like?_ a voice whispered. _Where does it lead you?_

When she looked up, Spike was studying her with an odd twist to his lips. 

“Buck up, Slayer. Sure your honeybear will be fine without you until we can get this sorted,” he said with an odd undercurrent of bitterness, then swiveled his body to plant his boots back on the ground. He started to pace the room. 

“This is _so_ not about Riley,” she said heatedly, but that only made him raise his eyebrows. “I mean, I want to get back to him. Three cheers for getting back to Riley, but--why am I even talking to you about this? That’s not any of your business anyway.” 

Not wanting to look at Spike anymore, she picked up the abandoned Bible, only to find that Spike had defaced a good chunk of psalms with a picture of her angrily wielding a stake. A chat bubble said “My name’s Buffy, and I have a giant stick up my--” 

Smacking it closed, she hurled it at him, but he dodged and it hit the window. 

“ _God_ , are you twelve?” she said as he laughed. She didn’t even wear boots and skirts like that anymore. And why could no one who drew her ever get the hips right? 

Spike was suddenly oddly chipper now for someone who suspected he was trapped in an alternate dimension. “Think we both know the answer to that one, pet,” he said. “Anyway, the better question is, what all-powerful beings named Kevin have you pissed off lately?” 

“Uh, _none_ ,” she said. “And you were the one who got the note. Clearly, Kevin has it out for you, and I got dragged along,” she said, right before a thought chilled her heart. What if trapping her here was just a way to get her out of the way so that woman could go after Dawn? 

“Of bloody course, now we’re back to it being _my_ fault.” 

“Everything’s your fault somehow, Spike,” she said, mostly on auto-pilot, her attention still mostly trapped on the same terrifying thought. “You were the one who decided to drag us out into the alley and--” 

He threw his hands up. “And you’re the one who wanted to have fucking story hour in the--”

They were interrupted by a loud _zing_ that made her jump to her feet and both of them instinctively angle their body toward the intruder . . . which turned out to be the television, snapping on to reveal a single line of white text against a black background. 

_Geez, I thought the other ones were bad, but you two take the cake._

Buffy turned to Spike to find his eyes already on her, blue gaze suddenly serious. Slowly, he turned his head back to the monitor. 

“Kevin, I presume?” he drawled. 

The line of previous text disappeared, leaving just a blinking cursor. One beat, two beats, three beats, and then an answer finally appeared. 

_No. Not Kevin._

“Then who are you?” Buffy said. “And why did you bring us here?” 

_That’s for me to know, and you to . . . well, maybe find out. Depends on how well you do in my game._

“Oh God,” Buffy said, flopping back on the end of the bed, then wincing as it jostled her side. “Is this another lame SlayerFest thing?” When Spike just tilted his head, she explained. “The year after Angel and Acathla, the year you were gone, the Mayor’s vampire-lackey guy arranged this whole slayer hunt thing. People paid money to hunt me and Faith, the other slayer, and the winner was supposed to get a prize. Only Faith didn’t end up in the car, Cordelia did--” 

She stopped because Spike’s eyes had slid back to the screen. 

_Believe me, that’s child’s play compared to what I have planned._

“Then what is it?” Buffy said. “Because, gotta say, it’s feeling a little ‘been there, done that’ on this end.” 

_I’ll tell you. But the vampire should probably sit down for this, too._

Spike’s eyes flew to the room’s corners. “Knew there were bloody cameras in here.” 

_Don’t need cameras._

“Sure you don’t.” He turned to Buffy. “Bet it’s in the bloody TV.” 

_No. I see all._

“Well, that’s not fucking creepy,” Spike muttered, going to muss up the pillows and pull out the drawer of the nightstand like a camera was going to spring out of them.

_You’re not sitting._

“Spike, sit, so we can get whatever this is over with,” Buffy snapped. 

With a dramatic sigh, he sat down. “There. Happy?” 

_No. Never._

Before they could say anything, the line disappeared, and was replaced with another. 

_Anyway, big congratulations! You’re here because you have been chosen to represent your dimension cluster in the First Annual Sunnydale Hunger Game._

“What’s that?” Spike scoffed. “A hot dog eating contest?” 

_No. Not a hot dog eating contest._

“Sounds like a hot dog eating contest,” he said. 

_It’s not._

“Well, it sounds like it.” 

The cursor started typing things and erasing them faster than they could read what was being said. When Buffy caught “death” and “fire” and “headless” and finally “actually a really good book, you stupid--,” she decided to cut in. 

“Just . . . stop antagonizing the blinking cursor thing, Spike.” 

The cursor settled. Soon, the next line appeared. 

_A Hunger Game is a battle royale where only one contestant survives. Or in your case, if you win, you as a pair survive. But gotta say, not really liking your odds._

“Wow,” Buffy said dryly. “That’s kind of twisted.” 

_Sweet cheeks, I try._

“And what if we decide not to play your game because it’s twisted?” she said, feeling anger beginning to bubble low in her stomach. 

_Then you don’t go home. And I think you, especially, need to go home. Don’t you, Buffy?_

“What do you know about that?” she said tightly, ignoring Spike’s curious glance. She’d known, somehow, that this had to do with the Dawn thing. It had to be that skank in the red dress, somehow, but if she was there, then how was she here, too? 

The blinking cursor offered no answers. 

“So this . . . world you’ve brought us to,” Spike said. “It’s meant to be like an arena? That looks like Sunnydale.” 

_Yep._

“And these other contestants . . .” 

_Oh, you’re going to like them. But I can guarantee that not all of them have your . . . reservations._

Spike gave a dark chuckle. “Doesn’t matter,” he said smugly. “’Cuz we’ve got the Slayer.” 

Buffy glanced at him, oddly touched by the confidence in his voice despite herself. At least until she saw the cursor’s reply. 

_: )_

The smiley disappeared. 

_You’re going to want to start heading toward the city center soon. Trust me._

And before Buffy or Spike could say anything else, the TV clicked off. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I am so very sorry this took me as long as it did, I went down a Secret Santa rabbit hole and then I just went down a boring life rabbit hole, but please have 10k words of bickering).

There was a beat of silence as they stared at the blank television. Then Spike darted forward, kicked it off its stand, and proceeded to smash it to pieces under his boots. 

“Happy now?” Buffy said once it was nothing more than a pile of sparking rubble. 

“No,” he growled, picking up a piece of electronic innards and glaring at it before throwing it back in the heap. “Still no sign of a sodding camera.” 

“Kind of think we have bigger problems,” she said. “You know, the whole ‘you’ve been chosen to participate in a freaky deathmatch’ thing?” 

Spike waved a dismissive hand, still frowning at the wreckage at his feet. “Can take whatever they throw at me, long as it’s a demon.” 

_ Wow, cocky much?  _ Buffy thought, even though honestly, she’d been feeling the same thing; she had bigger fish on her . . . fish list, or whatever the saying was. God, the brain fogginess was coming back again. She rubbed her head, wishing she could just lie back down and close her eyes for twenty minutes. Then again, it was doubtful that the pain in her side would let her sleep. The stab wound was starting to burn; chances were good she’d pulled more than just one stitch. 

She shook off the fuzzies--they didn’t have  _ time  _ for this, not with yet another fun and exciting twist to deal with. Apparently she was going to have to fight for her life in . . . wherever this was, just to  _ get back  _ to her other problems. 

“Well, I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m more interested in finding out who’s behind the curtain. I say that’s our focus.” 

Spike finally looked up from the crushed pile of wires. “We working together, Slayer?” 

“Well, yeah. I mean . . . the all-knowing cursor seemed to think we were a team.” Why was he looking at her like that? “I mean, if you want to strike out on your own I can’t stop you, but--”

“Nah, just wanted it out there plain.” 

“Okay,” she said. “Good.” 

“Good,” he echoed. 

And the weirdest thing was, Buffy was kind of relieved. Once it’d been confirmed that he wasn’t going to viciously stab you in the back, a Spike on your side was better than a Spike not on your side; for all his many, many faults, you could count on him to take care of himself in a fight. Even if there was a fifty-fifty chance he and his big mouth were the ones who started it. 

“So what’s the next step then?” he said. 

“Right.” She looked around the dingy motel room as if instructions might be written across the dusty furniture. “It wants us to go to the center of town, but I’d rather do a sweep to see exactly how far this Bizarro Sunnydale extends, see if we can get a sense of who’s running this thing.”  _ And what they have to do with Dawn,  _ she thought silently. “We know they have demons at their disposal. Or maybe they are one of those demons?  _ Someone _ ’s named Kevin, we know that.” 

“And if any of the other wankers brought here to fight find us?” 

“Then we fight, but I say we don’t play unless we have to.” 

Spike shoved his hands into his jeans. “Not the fun option. But probably the better one.” 

“It  _ is _ ,” Buffy said. “The quickest way out of here is to--” 

“You can save the speech, Slayer. Not disagreeing with you.” 

Buffy pulled up short at that, realizing that she’d gotten into the habit of coming up with long justifications for her plans since Riley had become a fixture in the day-to-day Scoobie operations. Of course he’d end up taking her lead, but you usually had to cut through layers of unhelpful army training to get to that point, when really, all he needed to understand was that she  _ was  _ the big gun. 

“Well, good,” she said, starting to stand. “Then let’s check out of here and--” Her words cut off in a hiss as she brought a hand to her side. 

Spike’s eyes dropped to her waist. “Sure our first stop shouldn’t be somewhere to get bandages and whatnot?” 

“I’m fine,” Buffy forced out. She ignored the niggling little voice saying that if they were to be zapped back to the real Sunnydale at this moment, she’d be running for the medicine cabinet, or the boyfriend with first aid training. The last thing she wanted to admit to Spike was that she was feeling weak from a gut wound she’d gotten from Mr. Rando Vamp. Slayer healing would kick in soon, she just needed to grit her teeth and push through it. 

“You sure--” 

“I said it’s fine,” she snapped. “What we need to be looking for now is transportation. If this really is Sunnydale, I don’t feel like walking the miles back to town.” 

Spike studied her for a few long moments but thankfully let the matter drop. “Can hotwire one of the cars out there. What say you--sporty or sensible?” 

Of course Spike knew how to hotwire things. She was about to protest that they should look through the rooms for a set of keys, but then, honestly, it was stealing any way you cut it. Or was it, given all of the cars’ owners seemed to have gone  _ poof _ ? God, she wished this headache would go away. 

“How about sturdy,” she said, deciding that the situation merited whatever would get them out of here the fastest. “We’re not sure what’s out there.” 

“Right, then. Shall we?” he said, tilting his head in an oddly courteous gesture toward the door. 

“We shall, I guess,” she said, then grabbed her coat, which was still on the end of the bed from when Spike had de-staked it. 

He’d started to whistle, still bizarrely cheerful given this bad situation only seemed to want to turn worse. 

But five seconds later, the whistle was replaced by a loud curse and then the clatter of a chair. When she turned around, he’d flipped the table in the corner. 

“What the hell, Spike?” 

He didn’t answer, just strode past her and stripped the duvet in one fell sweep. When that didn’t reveal what he wanted, he hurled it to the wall, where it caught on the one piece of schlocky art--a limply colored seascape--and brought it all down in a crash. 

“ _ Spike _ !” 

“Scabby wankers took my coat!” Now he was flinging open the slatted doors of the closet and raking his hands through the empty hangers in a jangle of frustration. 

“What? No. I’m sure it’s around here--” A flying iron crashed into the mirror over the sink, creating a waterfall of glass. 

“Spike!” she exclaimed, shocked, although admittedly part of said shock came from the fact a place like this even had an iron to throw. Serial killers needed to look unwrinkly too, she guessed. 

Taking long strides across the grubby carpet, Spike started tearing at the pillows until they bled stuffing. 

“It’s not  _ in  _ a pillow,” Buffy said, then dodged to the side when he lobbed one at her. “Hey!” 

“Then where is it?” he barked, throwing his arms up in the fluff that rained down around him. “’Cause I sure as fuck don’t see it.” 

Buffy took a look around, only to find that Spike was right: while the hotel room had several dark stains of mystery origin, there was no sign of his coat. “Well, okay, but there’s nothing we can do about it now.” 

“We can find those fuckers and tear out their spines!” he snarled, starting to pace back and forth. When he passed by the scarred dresser, he yanked hard enough on the handle that it ripped it out of the wood. 

“Oka _ yyyy _ ,” Buffy said slowly. “Someone needs to take a step back from the ledge o’ crazy and remember that it’s just a coat--something you don’t even need.” 

He made a high sound of disbelief. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered. “Has . . . significance.” 

Buffy rolled her eyes. Whatever--Drusilla probably gave it to him. After all, who knew what came after you hit platinum anniversary; maybe you started over and celebrated with something found in a trunk under a bridge. 

“Seriously, Spike, when this is over, I will personally escort you to Bad Fashion Choices R Us to get another one. But right now we have  _ bigger things to worry about _ . So can we just go?” she said, suddenly happy that there was no front-desk inquisition to face, given the room looked like it had endured several rockstar parties and not just one overly dramatic vampire. 

Spike stopped pacing. “Fine,” he said, still glum, and for a moment, just a moment, he looked so dejected that Buffy found herself fighting a pang of grudging sympathy. He looked all stripped and . . . vulnerable. Or maybe that was just the bit of fluff caught in his hair from the massacred pillows. 

_ “ _ Look, we can keep an eye out, okay?” she said. If they were going to get through this, he couldn’t be thrown off by the loss of a coat. 

He just grunted. 

She sighed and headed toward the door.  _ So much for cheerful. This is off to a great start.  _

_____

  
  


If it wasn’t enough that those fuckers took his coat, Buffy wouldn’t even let him choose the car. Sure, he got what she was saying about sturdy, which is why he avoided the sleek little red number tarting it up in the corner of the lot, but there were plenty of sturdy options that weren’t giant wanker mobiles like the dull olive-colored jeep she was insisting he hotwire. 

“Still think we should take the truck,” he said, raising his head from under the hood and jerking it toward the shiny black Ford with the silver skull details. 

“Yeah, and then after we can both go get face tattoos,” she said flatly, standing on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. “This is the one we’re taking. If you ever finish. Are you sure you know how to do this?” 

He twisted around to glare. “Yeah. Just never done it with a snippy little slayer yapping at my back.” 

That made her flip her hair back and cross her arms over her chest. It was windy tonight, and she’d put her own coat back on as soon as they left the room. While it felt a bit like rubbing salt in his wound, at least it was dulling the faint aroma of her blood. He was feeling edgy, and not just because of the anger still trilling through his veins; he hadn’t eaten before heading to meet her at the Bronze, too keyed to do anything but stare at the wall and run through conversations, fat lot of good that had done considering he’d thrown out the book the second she’d shown up late and with preemptive bitch face. The blood situation wasn’t dire--yet--but he’d need to keep an eye out for the butcher’s. 

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and go look for keys?” he suggested, shutting the hood and heading to the driver’s side. “That’d be better than hotwiring if we can get it.” 

That earned a few grumbles, but after a huff, she turned on her heel and headed toward the nearest room. 

“And some cigs, while you’re at it!” he called to her back. His smokes had unfortunately walked off with his coat. 

At that she kicked in the door. He snorted--couldn’t be feeling too bad then. 

He opened the driver’s side and ducked in to start prying open the steering column with a screwdriver he’d found in the bed of the obviously superior skull truck. Really, if it weren’t for his missing coat, he’d be enjoying this. Yeah, he’d jumped at the excuse to spend an evening with her, but the fact was, telling her about his slayer-killing exploits was never going to get him far. Couldn’t pull off apologetic, because he wasn’t, and he’d of course had to paper over the namby William bits with bravado, which just made her wrinkle her nose more. 

But this . . . not to say that being whisked off to an alternate dimension to take place in a deathmatch run by a blinking cursor wasn’t objectively  _ bad,  _ but at least it was a scenario that played to his strengths. She’d see how useful he could be at her side, at least less fragile than that boytoy of hers. And it was going to be just him and her for however long it’d take to sort this mess out. No nattering Scoobies, no steely-eyed Watcher, no sentient stack of gym socks frowning every time he stepped too close to his girl. No, if he played this right, he’d be the one who helped her earn a one-way ticket back to their dimension.

_ … After  _ they found whoever stole his bloody coat and ripped them into pieces. That was non-fucking-negotiable. 

But as soon as the panel of the steering column fell away, the good mood he’d talked himself back into dimmed. This was one of the newer models, meant to thwart anyone looking for an evil day’s work. A strong argument in favor of the fact that not all progress was good progress. 

Hearing Buffy’s footsteps behind him, he pulled his head out. “Not gonna be able to do this one.” 

“Why not?” 

“Too new.” He scanned the parking lot, until his eyes landed on an old sedan with the detritus of generations of bumper stickers. “Could probably get us that old Corolla in a few seconds, but not sure it’s what we’re looking for.” 

Buffy sighed, then reluctantly pulled a large mass of keys out of her pocket. At the top was a silver skull keychain. 

“One guess what  _ this  _ belongs to,” she said with a pout. 

“Well, well, well,” he said, grabbing them with a swipe. “Looks like we’ll ride in style yet!” 

Leaving her dramatic sigh in the dust, he wove between the cars to the large black truck, grinning when the key fit the lock. With a leap, he swung into the cabin and started the ignition, enjoying the loud grumble of the engine. And look at that--a full tank of gas. 

“They’re going to hear us coming from miles away in this,” she grumbled as she opened the passenger-side door and hauled herself up with a wince. “And that’s if we don’t die from weird Goth cooties first.” 

When she closed the door behind her, the aroma of fresh blood and Buffy became even stronger, strong enough that he felt his fangs pricking at his gums. Might have to speed up the timeline of figuring out the blood issue. For now, he needed a cigarette. But as soon as he reached to check the glove compartment, Buffy scooted to hug the door, looking at him like the truck wasn’t the only thing she thought might give her cooties. 

“Hold on to your knickers, just looking for bloody cigs,” he said, annoyed and tempted to snap that she hadn’t seemed to mind draping herself all over him in her sleep. Granted, she’d been tranqued up like a rhinoceros, but still. 

Reminding himself that all sorts of things can happen when a slayer and vamp are put into stressful, life-or-death situations, he opened the glove compartment. It turned out the truck was the gift that kept on giving, because on top of a crumpled pile of receipts and some cracked jewel cases, Spike found a lighter and a pack of Morleys. 

“Thank Christ,” he said, nabbing them both, knocking a cig out of the carton, lighting it, and taking a long drag. “Bloke continues to have excellent taste. Well, except for that Blink 182 CD. Bloody posers, the lot of them.” 

“Can we go?” Buffy said, still on the far end of the big black leather seat. “Or is this whole thing getting in the way of your me time?” 

“Just getting situated,” he said, fighting the urge to blow smoke in her face and see her flush. As a compromise, he took his time rolling down the window.

“Seriously, are you trying to draw this out?” 

Kind of, yeah. But all he said was, “Do you want to drive?” 

“No, I just want you to.” 

“And now,” he said, shifting into gear, “I’m ready to do that.” 

Ignoring her mutterings, he backed out and headed toward the entrance of the motel parking lot, one hand on the wheel. But just as he was about to make the left turn that would take them barreling toward Sunnydale, Buffy barked out an order. 

“Turn right,” she said. 

He turned to find her attention fixed on something out her window. “Thought we were heading to--” 

“Do it,” she insisted with new urgency. 

“You’re gonna need to make up your mind one of these bloody days,” he said, but he obliged. And then immediately slammed on the breaks. 

In their Sunnydale, Route 101 stretched out from here through the desert. In this one, it stretched out approximately two hundred yards and then ended abruptly in what seemed to be a mirror. There was the grill of the truck, its headlights, the shadows of Buffy’s dumbstruck face and the absence of his own. Behind it was the dubious neon oasis of the Sunnydale Motor Inn. 

In a flurry, Buffy was out the door, her hair a tangled comet behind her as she ran down the dark pavement. He wasn’t far behind, leaving the truck engine rumbling behind him. 

He could hear Buffy’s heart beating quickly as he joined her in front of the barrier. Tentatively, she touched it with a finger, then flattened her palm. 

“It’s a . . . wall.” 

He followed suit, putting his hand next to hers. “Seems like it, yeah,” he said, then looked up. Now that he was studying the sky more closely, he could see a distortion in the stars, how they clustered together more closely as the barrier curved toward the earth, creating a bubbled dome. 

“Sooo, it’s not like I’ve got a lot of dimension stamps on my passport,” Buffy said, frowning at her own reflection, “but aren’t they supposed to be, you know, full worlds?” 

“One would think,” he said, voice clipped. 

“So what does this mean?” she said, her eyes flicking to where his face should be, and for a second he was bowled over by the earnestness in her gaze. For the first time in . . . well, ever . . . she was looking at him like he might have an answer she might actually want to hear, rather than one she was forcing herself to. It was heady. 

It was also futile, because he had no idea what to fucking tell her. 

“Dunno,” he said. “Maybe it’s not a natural dimension. Cursor did say this was an arena. Maybe it’s been made for this.” 

“An arena that looks  _ exactly _ like Sunnydale in 1999, minus the people? Who has the power to make something like that?” she said, turning to look back at the real motel, with its brightly lit neon sign. “Not to mention that I happen to know for a fact that Sunnydale’s power plant is out there in what is now Mirror Zone. So where’s the power coming from?” 

“Dunno, pet,” he repeated, feeling helpless. “Could be generators.” 

“Maybe. But then if we’re in something, where’s the wind coming from?” she said, batting back the hair that was whipping around her face. “And, I mean, I can smell the ocean. Can you?” 

“Yeah. But could still be artificial. Or could be--”

“Magic,” she said flatly before her lips compressed into a flat line. She turned back to the mirror in front of them as if to glare holes in it. 

He squinted up at the stars again. At some point Dru had nattered on about them enough that he’d decided to at least have a cursory knowledge of constellations, if only to sort out what was real prophecy and what was word salad she decided to spout when she wanted to be contrary; if this were an artificial one, you’d expect to see it there. But apart from the distortion around the edges, it seemed as it should be for California this time of year. “Would take a fuckton of it though.” 

She gave a bitter laugh. “Kind of thinking lately that there’s a fu--lot of magic to be had when it comes to me.” 

He dropped his gaze to study her. “Something you’re not telling me, Slayer?” he said. There’d been a brief moment, back when they were talking to whoever was behind this thing, that she’d gone suddenly cagey. 

She looked at him, startled. Then she pushed her hair back and shook her head. “Oh. No.” 

But her heartbeat had picked up. 

“Really,” he said skeptically. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly defensive. “You think if I really knew who did this I wouldn’t have called them on it back in the room?” 

“Didn’t say you knew who it was, I asked if there--” 

“You know what I know, Spike!” she snapped. 

“Right.” He paused, his annoyance flaring up. “You know, if we’re supposed to be a team here then you should--”

Suddenly a howl rent the air, coming from the rocky range of low mountains to their right. Spike had heard a lot of beasties howl in his day--had heard a cacophony of them when he was holed up in the white cells of the Initiative--but there was a feral quality to this that did not bode well for anything caught in its path. 

For a beat, they just looked at one another. 

“Methinks that’s our cue to leave,” he said. “That is if you’re serious about avoiding non-essential brawls.” 

“Deadly,” she said, turning back to the truck. “C’mon. Let’s go to town.” 

  
  


____

  
  


While it had been disturbing to see the motel’s rooms clean of people, that was nothing to driving through the streets of Sunnydale. There were still lit-up shops, and lit-up houses, and signs of life on every corner--bikes and skateboards left in front of the campus dorms, cars in the drive-thru line at the Doublemeat Palace, coffee cups plopped on the tables in the large front windows of the Espresso Pump, lines of suitcases leading to the open door of a bus at the depot. But when it came to the  _ life  _ itself _ . . . _

Nothing. Nothing but the two of them. 

More disturbing yet was the fact that they were indeed in a bubble, one that essentially contained the whole of Sunnydale and nothing more. To the south, it ended out in the ocean beyond the marina, reflecting the shore back at them like a strange new island floating in the distance; to the west, in the water as well, although closer to the remains of the old factory that hugged the rocky shore; to the north, in the fat range of mountains where they’d first heard the howling, mountains made even fatter by what they knew now was the reflection of more mountains beyond; and to the east, just beyond the Sunnydale Zoo complex. 

Other than nagging at him for blowing stop signs and giving short directives as to which way to turn, Buffy didn’t speak much, preferring instead to aim the full power of her Slayer Frown out the window. The frown grew every time they passed a familiar spot, like her Watcher’s apartment with the Citroen DS Spike had crashed during the Fyarl episode and then her own home on Revello, where a mum-ish SUV was in the driveway, boot open as though the person had stepped away in the middle of unloading groceries. “Some weird girl’s stuff is probably in my dorm room now,” she muttered. 

“At least one thing hasn’t changed much then,” he said, mostly to break the tension that was ratcheting up with each ghostly block. 

“Ha-ha,” she said.

But as they drove past Restfield, Spike squinted through the gates, wondering what he’d find if he went to his crypt. If this was really all circa 1999, it’d probably be like he found it, nothing but dust and cobwebs and a few moldering magazines and joints left by teenagers looking to add edge to their lame human lives. He was surprised to find himself perturbed at the thought of the little nest he’d made being erased . . . and if that wasn’t a sad commentary on how the chip had changed things, he didn’t know what was. He and Dru used to breeze through Europe making the world their bloody oyster, and yet now, here he was pining after a woman who didn’t want him to touch her knee and mourning an old telly and a dumpster chair. 

They’d reached the east side of town again, marked by the arched entrance to the Sunnydale Zoo. Why did this sodding town even have a zoo? Who wanted to look at an African pygmy shrew when there was much more interesting fauna roaming the streets. At the end of the day, all you were doing was making a glorified feeding trough for the real carnivores. 

Another howl split the air--one that was  _ not  _ coming from inside the zoo. It was the fifth they’d heard since starting this little joyride. 

“Did that one sound closer?” Buffy asked. 

“Hard to tell,” Spike said. “What with all the twisting and turning.” 

Buffy shot him a glare. “Do you have a better plan?” 

“Not really, no. But starting to think maybe the reason we’re not finding anything is that this is a fishbowl situation and we’re the fish.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the closest barrier, just beyond the ferny enclosures straight ahead. “Mirror wall could be one-way, with whatever bugger brought us here watching from outside. Not that that explains the lack of cameras back at the motor lodge.” The absence was still bothering him. 

She sighed. “You’re right. But we don’t know that for sure, so maybe we just keep driving and add ‘look for exits’ to the list. Maybe there’ll be a set of stairs leading to a door or something.” 

“Think our keepers are taking pointers from  _ The Truman Show _ , do you?” 

“Just drive, Spike.” 

Spike did as she sniped, although he was starting to grow restless. It was looking more and more inevitable that they were going to have to fight whatever was howling out there, so he’d rather go face it then wait for it to jump out of the bushes and surprise them. At the same time, no matter what she said, the Slayer was ailing. The faint smell of blood was persistent and her hand flew to her side at every bump. 

“Stop!” Buffy said suddenly at the mouth of an alley to the side of the Downtowner Motel and Apartments. 

Hitting the breaks, he leaned over and looked beyond her out her window. “It’s another dumpster, Slayer.” 

She flung herself back against the seat. “Well, when they’re brown they kind of look like the cloaks those guys were wearing.” 

“On the bright side at least now we’re prepared for the dumpster uprising,” he said, and was delighted when she gave a little snort before she caught herself and schooled her features back to slayerly seriousness. 

“Keep going straight. I don’t think we’ve checked the far south side of town yet.” 

They had bloody checked the far south side of town--drove right up to the edge of the marina close enough to wave at the fish--but he hit the gas once again. All this random driving had convinced him of one thing; if she did know more than she was saying about who was behind this, none of it had anything to do with where said person was. He was starting to think maybe he was being paranoid about that. Dru had often accused him of such in the late years, but then again Dru often  _ had _ been shagging some disgusting thing on the side. 

As they breezed through another intersection, he shot a glance to the left, expecting to see the burned-out husk of the old high school. But no, there it was, resurrected in all of its old gray-faced, bureaucratic glory. Unlike many of the buildings they’d passed, it was completely dark. 

“Woah,” Buffy said, and he slowed down. “Blast from the past. Or,  _ un _ -blast from the past, since I blew it up.” 

“ _ You  _ blew it up?” he said. He’d known she was involved somehow, but thought it was more incidental than intentional. 

She looked at him incredulously. “Yeah. In the final showdown with Mayor Wilkins at graduation.” When he continued to stare, she added. “You know, when he became a big talking snake. I made him follow me into the library and then . . .  _ kaboom _ . Seriously, I know you were gone, but Harmony didn’t tell you any of this? She was there. Like, pre-vamp. Actually, I think that’s maybe when she became a vamp.” 

Had Harmony said something about that? True, the night he met Harmony, in a roadside bar on his way back to Sunnydale with visions of Slayer-killing Gems of Amara in his head, she’d nattered on about how she’d meant to go to cosmetology school after graduation and was exploring her options ever since that loser Brad bit her (“I mean, how am I supposed to explain why the hairdryer is just, like, floating over people’s heads!”). But he’d largely tuned out after that, if by “tuned out” one meant gotten so drunk he’d blacked out entirely and evidently invited the chit to come back with him to Sunnydale rather than shagging her once in the alley and being done with it. Now she was like the cat in that bloody song, only half as clever. 

Maybe this disappearance of his would actually be the thing to make her faff off for good. Not that she wasn’t good for a bit of fun when the mood struck, but it was always a disappointment to come out of the fantasy and realize that blond hair wasn’t attached to the Slayer. And if this  _ did  _ somehow lead to him and Buffy becoming closer, then not like he wanted Harmony hanging around to muck things up.

“ . . . I mean, what do you guys even talk about?” Buffy said. 

Realizing she was waiting for an answer, he slid his eyes over her with a smirk. “Don’t really do much talking.” Which was a bald-faced lie--while he tried to talk to the bint as little as possible, Harmony chattered as if she were being paid by the inane word--but it had the desired effect of making Buffy blush. 

She turned to look out the window. “Gross, Spike. Forget I asked.” 

Spike chuckled as he turned on the next street, but the mirth was short-lived, because the thought of shagging anything only brought his attention back to the twin scents of blood and Buffy dominating the air, even with his window rolled down. He wasn’t sure which one was worse when it came to keeping himself from doing something stupid. It was sometimes hard to keep his eyes on the road, given how she glowed under every shine of passing light. He rarely got to look from so close for so long. 

Slowing at a stop sign--the first he’d heeded on this jaunt--he restlessly tapped out another cigarette, his fourth; at this rate he’d be done with the pack in a matter of hours. 

“Your lungs are probably just two lumps of coal,” Buffy said with a disdainful sniff once he’d lit it and started cruising once again.

“Could be,” he said. They’d had a version of this conversation three times over at this point, and it wasn’t really doing anything for his mood. Nor was the fact that they were driving around aimlessly when something out there was braying for blood. 

There was yet another howl, this one sounding closer. 

“Turn left here,” she said when they were approaching the next intersection. “I want to check out the marina again.” Then she squawked. “Hey! I said turn left.” 

“Change of plan,” he said, turning right and following the road until he saw the high towers of Mercy Hospital, still all lit up. Honestly, the first clue that Sunnydale was not your average town should be that a place with a population below a hundred thou seemed to merit a fucking Mayo Clinic. 

Veering into the parking lot, he screeched up into the well-lit overhang that marked the entrance to the Emergency Room then cut the growling engine. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said, twisting her whole body around to face him. Her hand fluttered to her side again. 

“Look,” he said. “I get not wanting to go to the fight, but we’re finding fuck all right now just driving around.” He pointed to her waist. “Who knows what’s waiting for us out there, so might as well use this time to get patched up and prepared.” 

She set her chin. “I  _ told you _ , it’s fine. We shouldn’t--” 

“Bollocks. You’re wincing every time the truck hits a bump, and honestly, if you keep smelling like fresh blood, you’re going to be a flag to every non-human beastie out there.” 

“You’ve been  _ smelling  _ me?” she said, leaning into the disgust. 

“Yeah, ’cuz you’ve been smelling. So let’s just toddle into the ER, find you some tape, and me some blood, and we’ll be sorted on both fronts. Then we can go back to your Drive Around Looking for Evil Dumpsters and Homages to Pseudo-Intellectual Nineties Movies plan.” 

Buffy didn’t say anything, just continued to sit ramrod-straight thanks to the bloody pole up her backside. 

“Suit your bloody self then.” He shoved the door open and hopped out. “Be back when I find blood,” he said, slamming it behind him. 

But before he could even make it to the automatic doors, a cannon boom rocked the air, setting the glass windows of the truck rattling and reverberating through his chest. 

Why the fuck was there a bloody  _ cannon _ ? 

He went to the edge of the overhang and peered up at the night sky, but everything had gone still once again. This disappearing act must apply to animals too, as after a boom like that, one would expect the skies to be full of flocks taking wing. Well, animals apart from whatever was howling.  _ Again.  _

Sod this--whatever was happening, it wasn’t going to leave them alone for much longer, which meant they needed to stay together. So she was coming with him into the ER to slap on some new bandages even if he had to drag her, chip firing the whole way. 

But when he turned to tell her this, she had already jumped out of the truck, fingertips curled around the open door. 

“What do you think that was?” she asked.

“Nothing good,” he said. “Look, Slayer--” 

“If we’re going to be ready to fight, then I should take care of this. And you should get some blood,” she announced firmly, as if he hadn’t just spent two minutes of unbreath saying just that. Then without another word, she breezed through the sliding doors and into the inner sanctum of the ER beyond. 

“Bloody genius you are, Slayer,” he muttered before trailing after her through the swinging doors of the emergency ward. “Who would have thought of such a brilliant plan.” 

Brightly lit with that blue sort of glow that one only found in modern hospitals, the emergency room must have been bustling whatever night it had been back then. Most of the beds were in disarray, some with bloodstains and mysterious patches of other things not worth investigating. While the computers were all on their screensavers, it only took one jiggle of a nearby mouse to bring up the record of one Mrs. Barbara Danforth, 86 F, presenting to the ER from home with mild disorientation and--

Then it just stopped, because that’s when the rapture had happened, or whatever the fuck this was. 

Buffy was standing in the middle of the room, looking a bit lost as she turned in a slow circle. When she caught his eye, she gave a rueful smile. 

“Was kind of hoping there’d be a doctor who’d pop out and go ‘Surprise! They missed one. Now what do you need stitched?’” she said. “Don’t tell Giles, but kind of spaced on the whole first aid part of the early slayer preparedness course. Slayer healing usually takes care of a lot, and when it doesn’t, there are way more capable hands than mine around.” 

“So it’s stitches that are the problem?” Spike said. 

“Yeah. Pretty sure I split one behind the Bronze, and then it’s been splitpalooza since.” She sighed. “Suddenly wishing Riley had gotten sucked in here with me too.” 

He tilted his head at what was some  _ very  _ interesting phrasing--not that being trapped in here with her and loverboy was high on his list, but it was interesting he wasn’t getting fully kicked out in this scenario. 

She must have realized it too, because she hastily added, “I mean, I always wished that he was the one here. Just, you know, no use wishing for things you don’t have. Like Riley hands.” 

That wanker’s hands being out of this bloody dimension was among Spike’s Top 5 Best Life Developments, honestly. But all he said was, “Like your sweetie’s the only one who can sew a bloody stitch.” 

She just blinked at him. “You want to . . . help?” 

“Well . . . yeah,” he said, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his missing coat. “If we’re supposed to fight our way out of here, don’t want you keeling over all x-eyed in the middle of a brawl.” 

“I mean, sure, but kind of assumed a life of vampirism is light on the first aid training.” 

He gave a practiced shrug. “Creeping up on people in alleys brings its fair share of knife wounds needing patching, unless you want your guts hanging out willy-nilly. And besides, it’s hardly rocket science if Soldier Boy can manage.” He let his eyes drop to her side. “Not that he did such a bang-up job.” 

“Not like he thought I’d be dragged--literally--into a weird ball dimension,” she shot back. “Really, Spike, it’s fine. You can go look for blood. I’ll figure something out. Not expecting you to whip out your Florence Nightingale.” 

This was starting to sound like a direct challenge. 

“Hunt up a clean bed and wait there,” he said, turning to go look for anything that seemed like a supply closet. 

“Spike!” she called after him. “Seriously, you don’t have to--”

“Back in a mo, Slayer,” he said cheerfully, then started to whistle. 

However, that optimism lasted a sum total of thirty seconds, the time it took for him to get in the closet and realize he may have exaggerated his medical knowledge. Yeah, he’d stitched himself and Dru up when needed, but it wasn’t a regular thing, and usually involved a bottle of bourbon and whatever needle and thread was lying about. But honestly, if the army could teach it to that action figure she was dating, how hard could it be? And he watched  _ General Hospital;  _ not as much as  _ Passions _ , but enough that he knew his gut wounds from amnesia. 

After a short hunt, he’d gathered a needle encased in plastic, a packet that said “synthetic absorbable suture,” two packages that had “antiseptic” somewhere on their labels, a stack of gauze and bandages, and what he was pretty sure were painkillers. For a second he eyed a clipboard--doctors on  _ GH  _ always had clipboards--but then rejected it. Not going for the Daytime Emmy here. 

When he reemerged, Buffy had removed her coat and was sitting on the end of a bed in the middle of the row, a thin blue blanket pulled tight around her waist for no real reason other than that it seemed to be something she could fiddle with nervously. 

“You’re really sure you know how to do this?” she said, eyeing him. 

“Told you I did,” he said, only to follow that up by staring at her like a pillock for a good stretch of seconds. 

Right. He should probably take lead. 

“Can you, uh . . .?” He gestured for her to drop the blanket and lift her shirt, not unaware of the fact that this was yet another example of how the universe liked to bugger him.  _ Sure, Spike ol’ chap, you can play doctor with the Slayer. Literally.  _

Taking a deep breath as if to steel herself, Buffy dropped the blanket and pulled up one side of her stained tan tank. For a second, Spike saw a hint of lacy white bra in addition to the familiar and now  _ very  _ red bandage. But any excitement that held was washed away when she pulled the strip of tape away and let it drop. 

Christ. He’d known it had to be serious if she’d come to him looking for dirty details of his slayer fights, but this wasn’t just a deep cut. Something had impaled her, right in the gut, leaving a wound that was almost five inches across and now actively bleeding at its apex. Had she not been supernaturally inclined, it would’ve been fatal. 

Rage crawled its way up his spine and he saw red, ready to reach out and kill whatever nasty thing had had the audacity to lay its hands on his Slayer. Sure, he might still want to kill the unforgiving priss half the time, but that right was bloody his. She could have died while he was sitting with his thumb up his arse a mile or so away, and he wouldn’t have even known until he sidled by her house several days later and found it painted in gloom. 

She took advantage of his horror to take a good look herself. “Crap. I think that’s like four stitches popped.” 

. . . Those knobhead friends of hers probably wouldn’t have even thought to invite him to the funeral. There he’d be, sitting in his crypt with wild fantasies spinning through his head, and she’d be six feet under and he’d be left with nothing but a wisp of a memory. This position at the edge of her life was untenable, what with his love for her burning like a sun in his chest, it was--

“Hello? Earth to Spike?” 

He snapped out of his spiral to see that she had drawn the blanket back over herself and was looking worried. 

“You know what, you should go find blood and I’ll just figure something out,” she said. “This was a bad idea anyway, I--” 

“No,” he said, realizing that she’d interpreted his stare as bloodlust. The smell of her was intoxicating, filling the room and then some, but it was nothing compared to the thin line of panic battering around in his head.“’M fine, just . . wasn’t expecting the sight of it. All. . . ” He made a sound when no other words would suffice. 

“Gee, is that your professional opinion?” she deadpanned. 

“What did it?” he asked, going over to set the supplies on the rolling cart to the side of her bed. 

She stiffened again, fingers clutching the blanket. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, with ice back in her voice all of a sudden. “Look, my mistake for thinking you’d be helpful with this.” 

Spike’s temper flared at that, which was at least good for washing the fear out of his head. “Haven’t given me a chance to do anything. Just lie back, will you?”

She stiffened more. “You can do it like this.”

“Hard to stitch you when your stomach’s all wrinkled.” 

“ _ Hello _ , my stomach is not--”

“Oh just bloody lie back!” he said. “Not going to assault your virtue, just going to stick a needle in you. Not everything has to be a fight.” 

She puffed up with Slayer affront at that, and there was a moment where he thought she would throw something at him, maybe get him back with a pillow. But then she huffed and did as he asked, clearly in pain as she stiffly eased herself down but doing her best to not show it. Good. 

“At least go wash your hands,” she muttered to the ceiling. 

“Was going to,” he said. 

He had not been going to. Perhaps he had gotten to the root of why there were no medical shows featuring vampires, he thought as he went to the small nearby sink and soaped up. Should be, though. Would be better than the crap that made it on telly these days. 

When he returned to her side, he wiggled the bottle of painkillers at her. “Might want one of these. Didn’t think you’d want me waving a syringe at you, and couldn’t find anything that looked topical.” 

She shook her head. “Still feeling the tranqs. Don’t want to mix anything and be out of it, especially if we’re going to be in a fight soon.” She grit her teeth. “I’ll be fine.” 

Made sense, but he slipped them into his jeans pocket, just in case. Then he assessed the situation, trying to ignore the smell of her blood and the way her hair was a haloed vision across the pillow and the fact that this was very likely the first time he was going to touch the Slayer outside of a fight or spell or holiday tying-up event. And she was going to let him. 

Buffy seemed to be realizing the same thing, because she wouldn’t meet his eyes, arms pressed to her sides, fists clenched as if braced for the worst. 

“I’m going to, uh, stop the bleeding a bit first,” he said. 

Trying to make his movements more assured than his voice, he pressed gauze to the top of her wound as gently as possible. He could feel the warmth of her against his palm, even through the cotton. God, she was a furnace. He wondered if she’d feel that warm all over. Even in this artificial light, her skin still held its golden sheen. 

After a few moments her hand slid over his. “I’ll hold this if you want to get the other stuff ready.” 

He pulled his hand away quickly, hyper-aware of the brush of her palm against his knuckles. “Yeah. Right,” he said, then turned to look at the packages he’d dumped on the tray table, which suddenly made even less sense than they did before. Antiseptic, right. Dr. Webber was always rattling on about that like a bloody prat . . . although usually beside an unplugged IV and before cheating on the missus. 

He tore open a package of pre-soaked pads and turned back to Buffy, who had lifted the edge of the gauze and arched up a bit to check on her own bleeding. 

“Think that slowed it,” she said, then laid back down. 

He nodded dumbly. “Yeah,” he said, and then when she pulled it away started to gently clean around the area that was going to need stitching. Thankfully, the tear did seem limited to the top edges of the wound; while the flesh was pink and raw, it wasn’t exposing anything crucial. She’d be fine, he noted in relief. Well, fine for now. 

“Thanks,” she said softly, which made him look up in surprise. “For trying to help. And . . . for forcing it in the first place. It wasn’t going to get better on its own.” 

Her lips were pursed like she’d been sucking on a lemon, but there was sincerity in her green gaze that made something flutter in his chest--maybe the two lumps of coal she claimed were his lungs. He had to take a few moments to stopper up the poncy confessions that were swarming up his throat. It wasn’t the time. Not when they were finally finding some sort of steady ground, and not when whatever howling beastie was out there. 

“Well, want to get out of here in one piece,” he said coolly, throwing the used antiseptic pad on the tray and starting to open the needle and suturing thread. “And having you in fighting shape is a bit crucial to that, much as I may hate it.” 

She said nothing to that, and he didn’t dare check her face, still feeling raw himself. Also, they’d reached the part where he was going to risk losing her gratitude, because he was about to stick a needle in her without any sort of anesthesia. Perfect recipe for romance, that. 

After he’d managed to thread the needle and knot one end, he turned back and quickly leaned over the wound, fearful of losing his nerve if he waited too long. She hissed at the first stitch. 

He paused. “You alright?” 

“Yeah.” Her voice was tight. “Felt worse.” 

Not exactly what a bloke wanted to hear, in any context, but he persevered, doing the next quickly, just like he was sewing up one of Dru’s torn garments. He was about to go in for the third when he felt her gaze. 

She was watching him with a small frown--not like she was angry, but more like she was intent on a puzzle slapped across his forehead. So intent, that she seemed surprised to realize he’d stopped working. 

“What?” he said, voice sharper than expected. 

“Oh,” she said. “Uh, that’s not the way Riley did it.” 

Speaking of things he didn’t want to hear . . . “How did bloody Riley do it?” 

“I don’t know, he had these tools and he made these little loopy things.” She made a little twirl in the air with the hand closest to him. 

“Well, bully for him,” he said, then deliberately turned his face back to his work. His very crooked but capable work, all things considered. “This always worked fine for Dru.” 

“Yeah, but she was dead. And crazy.” 

He cracked his neck. Why’d it always have to be one step forward and four back with her? Deciding to ignore that, he did the third and fourth, then tied off the latter sharply. 

“Ow,” she said pointedly, which set his teeth on edge even more. 

The wound had started to bleed again as he stitched, and it was hard not to zero in on the fact that there was slayer blood right there, on his hand, free for the taking. But of course she’d give him hell if he did anything naturally vampiric in front of her, because  _ can’t have that _ . 

“You ready to share what nasty did this?” he said instead, grabbing the roll of tape and a new bandage. Now that he’d gotten closer to the wound, he could tell it wasn’t caused by any sort of blade, or even a claw. The bruising was round, like you’d see around a bullet hole, and yet it seemed too large for that. 

She was back to staring up at the ceiling. “I told you, doesn’t matter,” she said breezily. 

“It damn well does if it has anything to do with why we’re here.” 

She shifted and then winced, hand fluttering to her side and then quickly away. “It doesn’t. Can you just slap some gauze on this and we can find you some blood?” 

But he wasn’t going to be distracted again. “It’s large enough for a shotgun blast, but that’d have made a mess of your back too, and not really the MO of your garden-variety fiends from hell.” He titled his head, considering. “Demon horn? Horny buggers can be a nightmare.” 

With a tiny groan, she awkwardly sat up.“Give  _ me  _ the gauze then, Spike,” she said, reaching for it, but he yanked it away. 

“When you answer my question,” he insisted. “Because you’re not telling me something, I can feel it, and if whatever did that is running around here then it’d only be a public service to--”

“It was a stake, okay?” she snapped. “It was a dumb, stinky vampire with dumb hair who grabbed my arm just as I was going in for the kill and twisted it around on me. No big fight to the death with a fancy sword, no epic subway battle, no  _ dance,  _ just Buffy being stabbed with her own weapon and having to be saved by her boyfriend.” 

When he went still, she took the opportunity to grab the bandage and tape before continuing to rant. 

“Happy now?” she said. “I’ve stopped like four apocalypses at this point, but I almost died on a random patrol thanks to a vamp I don’t even think was that old. He even got away, so maybe when we get back you can go congratulate him on his one good day. Or wait, you wanted it to be  _ your  _ one good day, right?” He said nothing, so she continued. “Seriously? No more pearls of wisdom? You were full of speeches just a few hours ago.” 

“Said what I wanted to say,” he said, frowning. And he  _ had.  _ Stood behind it, too. Slayers did have a death wish buried under all that supernatural destiny, and the sooner she faced that the longer she’d live. Not to mention telling it to her straight was what she’d bloody asked of him. Helped no one if he sugar-coated it. And yeah, okay, maybe he’d leaned into it, enjoying the fact that for one night she wasn’t writing him off as a toothless annoyance. She’d been  _ there  _ with him in that alley, hearing him, because the only time she did was when he said things that got under her skin. They had their roles to play, and he’d played his to bloody perfection. 

And yet . . . had just wanted her to listen to him, for once, not to grind her morale into the sodding ground. Honestly, he didn’t even entirely remember what he’d spouted off there at the end, too caught up in the rush of fighting with her again, even if it had been a mockery of the kinds they used to have. 

“Everyone has off nights,” he said dumbly, then immediately knew it wasn’t the right thing to say. 

“Right. Because of my giant death wish.” 

He hesitated. Her eyes were glaring daggers at him, but also demanding . . . something. And that was when he realized that her anger wasn’t because of what he’d said, but because of the internal bull’s eye it had hit. A chill gripped him then. She had all those bloody friends. She had that lunkhead of a boyfriend and a mum and kid sis and a Watcher and . . . she shouldn’t be feeling it bloody  _ now.  _

“Buffy . . .” he said. 

“Just go find the blood,” she said, starting to furiously pull off pieces of tape. “I’ve got the rest of this.” When he didn’t move immediately, her voice rose. “Seriously, Spike, just  _ go _ .”

He scratched the side of his face. “Not sure we should spli--” 

“If you don’t leave this second, I swear to God you’re the one who’ll need stitches,” she snapped, words so full of venom that he veered back. 

“Fine, you bloody bitch,” he said, then turned on his heel and strode out the door. “See if I come back at all!” 

“Fine!” she called after him. 

“Fine!” he called back, but the doors had unfortunately swung behind him so he didn’t know if she’d even heard. Not that it was a crying shame, given its relative lameness as exit lines went. 

He stalked off down the hall, head swimming with so much anger he felt like he was about to choke on it. God, she pissed him off. Here he’d gone out of his way to bloody help her and still all he got back was her venom, and her threats, and her  _ that’s not the way Riley did it _ s. Whatever was howling out there could fucking have her, rip her and her snippy little complaints to little pieces until all that was left was a shiny pile of blood and--

_ Oh fuck _ , he thought, stopping dead in the hallway to look at his bloodstained fingertips. He’d forgotten to use gloves. 

Then he growled and made a point to lick her blood off his thumb, because that’s what he  _ should  _ want to do here. Who the fuck cared if she died of a staph infection! Her dying was the best thing that could bloody happen to him. Then the universe could go back to the way it was supposed to be, where all he wanted was to get this chip out of his head so he could murder his way through Sunnydale. Take care of those friends of hers before he left town as an extra fuck-you-bitch and then--

This was the part where his fantasies always collapsed, because the idea of looking up Dru and starting that lopsided dance again left him strangely empty, but so did the idea of freewheeling around the globe solo for the inevitable future. He’d done that, and while it was good for a year-long lark, it always eventually left him cold. 

He shook his head; not like he had to figure that out now. Now he needed to find out where they kept the blood in this place, as every time he’d had bagged human it’d always been the kind that had conveniently walked itself out of the hospital already. Then he’d go fight whatever he needed to fight, find his coat, and get out of here.  _ Alone.  _

Unfortunately, none of the directory kiosks were any help, nor was the layout that seemed to have been designed by bloody Daedalus. The whole hospital was a maze of the same beige walls, same heavy beige doors, same bronze plaques that told a bloke where the urology department was forty times but not anything of actual use. He didn’t need his fucking prostate examined, he needed  _ blood _ . So what was he looking for? Blood Room? Blood Bank? Blood Center? Blood Bloody Blood . . . Place? 

He’d reached the main entrance on the north side, complete with gift shop and cafeteria, worthless as it was for him. Pivoting, he headed back the way he came, plotting where to go left instead of right, only to stop when he heard a sound. 

Someone was whistling. 

It was echoing from one of the corridors ahead, a jaunty three notes that rang familiar for some reason. 

Creeping to the end of the hallway that ended in a T, he peered around the corner, just in time to see the flash of a black jacket clearing the intersection to his right. 

Smiling, he shook on his fangs. Finally, something was going right--not only was there something to fight, it was the scabby fucker who took his coat. 

Not bothering with stealth any longer, he took off, rounding the next corner where he’d seen the whoosh of black. 

Only to come to a screeching halt. 

Back when Polaroids became a thing, he and Dru had nicked a boxful, and for the next few years, had whiled away many an hour taking pictures and staring at the reflections that had been denied for so many years. It had been that that had made him decide to ditch the black hair that had gotten him through the wars and Italy and go for the platinum, liking the brightness it gave to the black-and-white snaps and the looks he got from women and men when he and Dru went out on the town. After a while, he didn’t need the snapshots to keep an image of himself in his head. Bright hair, black coat, a vision of death that killed you as an afterthought and laughed while doing it. 

The exact vision that turned around now, its scarred eyebrow arching up when it saw him standing at the end of the hallway. 

“Well, well, well,” it drawled. “Looks like this game is more interesting than I thought.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Some lines borrowed from 5x7 "Fool for Love"


End file.
